Why It’s Important to Cheat on Your Spouse

Haha! I knew that headline would grab your attention! Hey, didn’t cha know? I’m a swinger. Riiiiiiigggggghhhhhttttttt. Sure, I may joke about running off with the super hot guy who plays Dean on “Supernatural,” but I’m sure after a couple weeks his snores would annoy me with the same level of irritation that my husband’s do.

So no, I’m not advocating cheating. But what I do advocate is finding a way to rediscover what it was about your spouse that caused those stomach-flipping butterflies and that nervous smile when you first laid eyes on him/her across the crowded room. What it was that made you check your messages every ½ hour to see if they’d called. Or that made you take a little extra time to get ready for a date (did I say a little extra time? I used to spend hours trying on outfits before dates with my not-yet hubby)

When you’ve inched past the decade mark in your marriage, it can be exceedingly difficult to recall the thrill you felt the first time your and your beloved’s lips met. Especially when it’s just past 8:30 in the evening, you’re folding laundry, and your husband is asleep on the couch, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. In the day-to-day act of living (and all the lovely and annoying things that go with it, like paying bills, cleaning toilets, the ups-and-downs of careers, leaky roofs, morning breath, that extra 10-lbs you swore you’d lose by now…not to mention the sometimes ugly arguments that are part of even the best marriages) the fire that made your heart race uncontrollably whenever you were around them is now just a thin wisp of gray smoke wafting lazily up from the dying embers of romance…

Okay, that’s a little hyperbolic. And I do have married friends who swear their flame is hotter than ever and if that’s so, then I say, “Rock on, sista!” But for the rest of us, perhaps not so much. And that’s not to say we don’t love our spouses as much as our “flames still burnin’” counterparts. It’s just saying we need to find a way to re-ignite that flame before it burns out completely.

And that’s where “cheating” comes in. I reach down into my memory and pull out my image of my DH as he was when we first met. Younger, of course—but at 48 he still is smokin’ hot for an “old” guy, thanks to daily work outs, a rigorous regime of vitamins and good genetics (and hair—still has most of his hair, graying of course, but it’s there). But what I try to envision in front of me is the 36 year old who impressed me so much with his intellect, his travel (he’s been to 30 countries), his commitment to healthy living, his willingness to go along with me wherever I wanted, be it roller-blading at the beach or out to Julian to pick apples. He also had a ton of friends who took me in like I’d been part of the group for years. Plus, he was a flowers-and-cards kind of guy. Hard to believe now, but he was. He even wrote poems to me.

He’s still the same guy, now buried underneath a high-stress account manager job, work-related travel (he’s gone every couple weeks for days at a time), a second mortgage, the needs of two growing kids, a tough economy (we said bah-bye to more than half of our net worth since December 2007 thanks to the stock market—and wouldn’t you know it, the stocks that are coming back around again now are not the ones we still own), commitments at church (he’s a deacon, and feels exceedingly guilty that he’s missed the last three Sundays because of kids’ activities—as opposed to me, who is pretty happy to have an excuse not to sit in the third row), and, well, just life.

And I’m not the same, either. I don’t like to admit it, of course, but it’s true. And it’s not just the extra “baby” pounds that never seemed to go away (oh, you have to exercise to lose weight? Go figure!). And it’s not just the smile lines around my eyes that are there even when I’m not smiling. I’ve got my own stuff to deal with—from the proverbial “family” issues, to career uncertainty (do I go full-time somewhere with a guaranteed paycheck, or continue to build my freelancing career?? *sigh*).

So when I fantasize about the guy who used to live in the skin now occupied by my husband, it’s not cheating, exactly, but it is sort of being with someone else—the person he was when we first met, and it was all exciting and new. It may sound strange, but it’s actually helped us. Because knowing that guy is still in there, buried just under the surface of the husband, has made me want to be more of the person I was when we were first together. Less quick to complain when things annoyed me. More willing to see his point of view. Eager to partner with him and give him my support, rather than roll my eyes or give one of those heavy “whatever” sighs.

So if you’re looking to strike a match to that last unburned coal of romance, try summoning up a mental vision of your spouse as a lover—as your lover, the one you would have done anything for. And keep that picture in your mind when you kiss them, when you take them in your arms…or even when you watch them, asleep on the coach, mouth wide open and snoring, at 8:30 in the evening.

PS: And going to a romantic restaurant once in a while doesn't hurt either--and I mean one that does not include chicken fingers on the menu. Leave the kids at home and pretend you're still young and hotter than you-know-what for each other. Here's some of the OC's best romantic spots for rekindling the flame...

French 75, Laguna Beach

La Cave, Costa Mesa

Manhattan Steak & Seafood, Orange

Mozambique, Laguna Beach

Orange Hill Restaurant, Orange

Rusty Pelican, Newport Beach

Studio, in the Montage Resort, Laguna Beach

The Cellar, Fullerton

Where is the line between supporting our kids and pressuring them?

I tossed out a comment once while chatting with a friend that for all the effort and money we’re putting into our girls’ athletic activities, they’d better get college scholarships! It was one of those off-hand remarks said in a joking tone that was meant to just fade into the fabric of the conversation. Yet while the rest of the conversation has completely left my mind, that tossed-off joke has stayed with me. It haunts me. Often the sentence has flitted through my mind in completely unrelated situations. It baffles me, because it was just a joke…right?

But it’s said there’s truth behind every joke, and I guess if I were to be completely honest with myself, I really would like one or both of the girls to win athletic scholarships. In fact, if I want to be painfully honest with myself, and by extension, you, I sort of expect that they will. If they don’t…I’ll be disappointed.

I understand that admitting a truth like that makes me look like a horrible parent. Parents are supposed to love their kids unconditionally, and whether or not they earn a scholarship, athletic or academic, to college should be far, far, far down on the list of why we love our kids. Yet (I believe) for every mom or dad out there upon whom it suddenly dawns one day that, hey, I’ve got a truly gifted kid there, the thought of college scholarships isn’t far behind…

Which leads me to (at last) the topic of this blog: our expectations of our children. What is realistic? Where is the line between support and pressure? And who draws that line?

My girls chosen sports are running and gymnastics. My 10-year-old started with Track & Field six months ago, and is now in cross-country. At this point she’s earned several medals and has a 6:26 mile time—her goal is to get below 6:00 by the beginning of Track season in January. My 7-soon-to-be-8 year old is in competitive gymnastics, and has collected a mess of medals of her own, and will be going to State Finals in two weeks.

So how much is too much? Is running 20+ miles a week (between conditioning and races) too much for a 10-year-old girl? Or is 12 hours a week of gymnastics too big a burden for a child who is still mastering her times tables? Other parents say that as long as the kids “enjoy it” it’s all right—and as long as they keep their grades up.

I examine my heart; I get into that really uncomfortable place where my own unrealized dreams are hidden. How much of their success is really about me? And when it comes down to it, that’s the question every parents needs to honestly ask themselves when trying to determine how much is simply too much (or, conversely, not enough) for their child. If a child is asking to “take a break” from a sport or club or activity, it’s time to step back and allow that break. That doesn’t mean they won’t come back to the activity; it may mean something as simple as the kid is just plain tired. It could also mean that parents’ expectations have taken the child into an arena that they, the child, doesn’t have his or her whole heart invested in. That being said, the child could be very good at that sport or activity—but if their heart is not in it, then where’s the joy? And that’s when we have the responsibility as parents to look at our motivations.

While watching my girls, I am part of them. I am Sam as she dashes across the finish line. I feel it when she expels that deep, pent-up breath. I feel the air swoosh past my own face as Nati does flies around the uneven bars. Her hands hit the mat as she arches into a double back handspring, and my palms sting. But it’s not fair for me to keep them in an activity because of the feeling I get watching them. That’s when support becomes, in my opinion, pressure. When it ceases to be about them, and becomes about me.

But, as every parent who has a kid who’s exceeded expectations should know, ultimately the most important thing is to keep it all in perspective. It may lead, somewhere down the line, to a scholarship...or not. As a mom, it's my job to make sure I don't get carried away in what should be their life experience...but that I do give them the support, encouragement and time they need to be as good as they can whatever they choose to do.

And make sure to keep puttin' dough in that college savings account!

A Very Inclusive Club

I love my hair stylist.

It’s true—she’s wonderful. Sweet, sexy, talented—all the things a good stylist should be. She’s also become a friend, which makes my every-five-weeks (gotta lotta grays to cover up!) visits to her even more enjoyable.

As it sometimes happens when you’re in close proximity to someone for better than an hour (especially in the semi-confidential setting of the stylist’s chair) talk often turns to relationships. At this morning’s appointment, talk turned to past lovers. No, no, we weren’t doing the “oh, I miss him so much” thing (especially for me—my last “real love” prior to my husband was almost 16 years ago). We weren’t mourning the loss of the “almost.” She’s in a blissfully happy relationship, and I have been one half of a mostly successful marriage for over a decade. We’re both committed-type gals.

It was a really insightful conversation. I left feeling somehow lighter; it was a relief that I wasn’t the only one out there who still feels certain ways about certain things.

Then, driving a short distance up the road to a Peet’s Coffee in Anaheim Hills (where I’ve been doing a lot of my work lately—being at home is not necessarily conducive to actually working, I’m discovering) I spotted a group of people crossing from the office buildings to the smattering of restaurants across the way. As I watched them walk—three guys and two girls, laughing, talking, obviously looking forward to enjoying a fun lunch together—it occurred to me that every one of those 20-to-30 something people had, at one point in their life, had their heart broken. Just like me. Just like my stylist. Just like my friends. And anyone else who has managed to survive the dating world past the age of 25. And it made me think about the impact these lost loves have had on all of us—and how, even after many years away from them, even years after you know the last shred of love you had for them is gone, these lost loves still have an influence in your life, however small, and the way you view the world.

For me, it is a small, dull ache, like an old bruise—along with an absolute certainty that he was not the right guy for me. I spent years in my 20s, following the split, trying to “get back” at him (which was really quite hilarious, considering that we stopped all contact after our break up and he had no way of knowing what I was up to). I played the “I don’t want to get hurt” card on every date, and in turn, hurt others. It took a very long time for me to open up my heart again, and by that time I was nearly 29, much more settled and focused. I also had something I didn’t before—perspective. Not everything—including the break up—was about me. We just were not right for each other—it was to his credit that he recognized it before I did. His credit, and his unbroken heart.

And I'll admit to this: now and then I do wonder what he's up to. And I have googled him once or twice. I even found him on Facebook, though we are not "friends." In my circle of close friends, most have admitted that, like me, they still have a special place in their past for the one who changed their view of the romantic world. And they, like me, despite normal curiosity about their "past love," are for the most part happy with the journey their life has taken them on, and the person they've taken that journey with.

So I'm part of a very large, very inclusive club: the club of people who've had their heart broken, stomped on, crushed, twisted, torn apart, and otherwise mangled almost beyond recognition. And I'm also part of the club whose members (all of us, it would seem) discover that hearts really do mend, though it takes time, energy, effort, and most of all, perspective. I think, for the most part, these two clubs are actually one and the same. Because after all, most of us end up in a long term relationship. It may not be with our first love (in fact, 9 times out of 10 it's not) but it is with, God willing, our real love.

What I Signed Up For

This is not what I signed up for.

Whenever a particularly onerous duty falls my way in the course of my day-to-day activities as a mom/wife/general all-around household troubleshooter, this thought sneaks its way into my brain. No matter the roadblocks I’ve put up—this is what a mom does or this isn’t as gross as it could be, at least—the thought creeps in.

Yesterday the thought became un un-ending mantra as I carefully (and while holding my gorge) extracted a—and this is where it gets truly gross and I apologize—large and painful poop from my dog’s rear end (using about 6 layers of paper towels of course!!). The poor dog—incredibly constipated. (My fault, I’m sure—I let her eat several left over pieces of filet the night before from the girls’ unfinished dinner plates.) After a day of straining to get “her business” over with, she just made it worse. So when she finally did go, it didn’t all come out and—well, you get the picture. The poor thing was whimpering in pain. So my brave daughter Nati (whose express goal is to be a veterinarian when she grows up) held up Daisy’s tail while I did what I had to do. Eeewwwww. The dog felt better instantly, and quickly returned to her normal, happy self. And while I washed my hands in ultra-hot water at the sink, sudsing up to my elbows, that thought circle around in my head.

This is not what I signed up for.

It occurred later this evening when said-same lovely girl Nati “accidentally” twisted the handle off the bathroom faucet and water started shooting up (she was trying, she explained later, to see what would happen if she took the handle off—and I still don’t really know how she managed that—it takes a lot of strength. She’s 7!) Anyway, amid heaps of towels and hysteria (Nati is terrified of floods—my fault; I let her watch “Deep Impact” when she was four, and she’s never looked at water the same way), I managed to screw the handle back in, all the while trying to calm my screaming, sobbing child and reassure her that there would be no flood. The rushing water stopped—stopping the tears took longer.

This is not what I signed up for.

But fortunately, those moments are far and few between. But when they do occur, it confirms a simple truth: being human, we're all susceptible to the idea that somehow, some way, life hasn't turned out the way we'd thought it would (or thought we deserved). I for one (and I doubt many of the people I know) would have imagined when they decided to "take the plunge" that part of that new role might include frantically yanking towels off their ranks to stem the upward rush of a spouting bathroom geyser.

It's a simple truth that we all give tacit acknowledgment to, yet seldom seem to think applies to ourselves: life is hard. For some it's hard in tragically life-altering ways--a loved one's sudden death, the loss of what was thought to be a secure job, the breakup of a marriage, the devastation of one's entire life savings in a Ponzi scheme (ala Bernie Madoff)--and for others, it's hard in little ways that build up, up and up until the cumulative effect makes each day less bearable than the one before: a spouse that, day after day, year after year, works 14 hours days, comes home, works some more, and shares no conversation with you more in-depth than "Did you get the mail?"; a car that breaks down again and again and again; a thoughtless neighbor who lets their dog poop on your lawn despite your requests that they stop it or has one loud, ear-thumping, end-at-3am party after another, knowing you have a baby in the house; a relative who has made it his or her personal mission to dominate every holiday with their own bitterness and frustration. Life is hard because of both huge things and little things.

But's its all just life--that's my point. And all of us being human, it's easy to fall into the "this is not what I signed up for" trap. Don't get me wrong; I'm no Polly Anna eager to tell you to put a smile on your face and just muddle through it. And I'm not particularity religious, either--I'm the last one who will tell you "It's all part of God's plan. We can't see it now, but someday we will." (Having heard this trite phrase from several well-meaning but clueless people at my dad's funeral, I can tell you from personal experience that those words are not comforting. Sorry.) But I will say that if we understand--as friends, spouses, neighbors, colleagues and people who share the same block/city/country/world--that we're not the only one out there having a rough day, I think we will all better for it.

So what did I sign up for then? In life? In marriage? In parenthood? I signed up for the good stuff: the successes, both large and small, that give me enough energy to move to the next level--be it planning a fundraiser that brought in gobs of cash or making a recipe that actually tasted like it was supposed to; the small moments, like the way Daisy leaps with excitement each and every time she sees me even after the briefest of absences; the warm, sleepy goodnight kisses from my girls just before they drift into dreamland. The friends I love, the people I admire, the places I've been fortunate enough to see in my life.

So yeah, yesterday, I spent my fair share of thought-energy thinking This isn't what I signed up for. But then, when I really gave my day the thought it deserved, I realized that it actually was what I signed up for-- I signed up for taking myself out of the "center" of it, and putting someone else there. That's why even though "helping" Daisy last night made my stomach do the long, lazy flip-flop that tell me I'm about to puke, I didn't hesitate to do it because I knew she needed me. Or stanching the bathroom flood (both of water and Nati's tears). I signed up for letting the guy in the car in front of me ease in, and for holding open the door for the harried mother with three little ones and only two hands. I signed up for listening when an ear is needed, for advising when an opinion is sought, and for holding when love is the only thing that will make it "all better." I signed up for doing my part to make the world (my small piece of it, anyway) a little better than I found it--a work in progress, always.

Art in the OC...It Does Exist!

The title of this post is strictly tongue-in-cheek. Much to my never-ending delight, there are a significant number of galleries in the OC, from the "that's-as-good-as-anything-I've-ever-seen-in-LA" Bowers Museum in Santa Ana to the "the-view-rivals-the-art-collection" of the beach-side Laguna Art Museum. Sprinkled throughout Orange County, from the Gallery On Glassell (a lovely little place in Downtown Orange which features Southwestern Art) to the Muckenthaler Cultural Center (in Fullerton; line drawings; paintings; pottery; with the occasional concert series thrown in for good measure), aesthetes will find places filled with art that makes the heart sigh and the mind soar with possibilities.

And the OC art environs don't end with the visual variety--we have theater that ranges from uber-smart (The Chance Theater in Anaheim has some productions that will take your breath away--currently playing "The Seagull" by Anton Chekov) to the family-flavored fair featured at The Curtain Call Dinner Theater (you won't want to miss "Singin' in the Rain"). Plus, I'm proud to say that OC theaters include the world-class Orange County Performing Arts Center (which has productions that rival Broadway's--Spamalot, anyone? Opened on the 6th). The Renee and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall is a beautiful piece of architecture (I've only been to two events there, though, and likely will not go again unless forcibly dragged. The seating situation--five stories of undulating levels with a low guardrail--gave me such a bad case of vertigo that I actually ended up hyperventilating. A very sweet but obviously wary seating host had to talk me through it. True story. That being said, if you're not afraid of heights, you should go...of course, I didn't know I was afraid of heights until I went...hmmmmm)

Plus, the Argyros Stage at the OC Performing Arts offers edgy, contemporary fair that will please those looking for something that propels them to the next level. And of course, who could forget our local college drama departments? Cal State Fullerton's drama department hosts amazing productions for the low, low price of just $9 a seat--and every seat is a good one.

So anyone who dares look down on those of us "behind the Orange Curtain" (a phrase I hate but in many cases--especially politics--is eerily apt) for not having any "culture," (I'm talkin' to you, LA) I beg to differ. As a aesthete (okay, okay, I'm showing off--an aesthete is just a fancy, aren't-I-brilliant word for 'art lover') I consider myself pretty well versed in all things artistic Orange Count has to offer. But this past Saturday night, I learned that "pretty well versed" really doesn't mean jack in the big scheme of things when it comes to the world of art. Because art is more than a once-a-month trip to Laguna to cruise the galleries or a once-a-season production of The Sound of Music with my girls. It's moving beyond the expected places, to those where you might not have even thought about.

My dear friend Larissa Marantz (she of OC Art Studios, Rug Rats, countless children's books, and, who can leave out, the wonderful portrait of President Obama for the Manifest Hope exhibit during the inaguration) was invited to show her Obama painting (she has two) and painting of Lilly Ledbetter (Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act--signed into law after 10 years of struggling to close the pay gap between men/women doing the same job) at the Studio Del Sotano Gallery in Santa Ana. Now, unless you're not from around the OC or have been living under the proverbial rock, you know that over the last 8 years or so, downtown Santa Ana has been striving to redefine itself as an artist/art lover (aesthete--hee hee) haven where people can breathe in the magic of local artists.

So along with my other dear friend, Melissa, an aesthete like me (okay, I swear I will never use that word again!! Geesch!) I went to see Larissa's installation. It was the Santa Ana's Art Walk, a once-per-month celebration of the local artiste. The gallery owners are there, doors wide open, offering wine and assorted goodies for all. I'd never been to the Art Walk before and I must say, I was tremendously excited to go. Not only was it a bit of an adventure--I'm always, always, always up for trying something new--but it also provided me with the opportunity to check out this part of the SA I'd always heard of but hadn't had a chance to explore.

The Santa Ana Art Walk was all I hoped it would be. It was a phenomenal night, perfect weather. The rather smallish crowd in the street gave way to street vendors with interesting things to look at, although nothing quite caught my eye to buy (maybe next time).

I could give you a blow-by-blow description of which galleries we went in and what we saw. But what fun would that be? I'll tell you what made an impression on me, instead, in the order that I remember them (both good impressions and what-the-hell-is-that??-impressions):

1. Larissa's paintings (of course--I am so thrilled to see her in a gallery. She's worked so hard & derserves it so much)

2. "Tape." Yup. A blank white canvas with a smattering of torn blue painters tape in the upper left corner.

3. Naked girl live installation. This was a real girl. Best Boobs Ever! I was both impressed by her bravery and jealous because, unlike me, her boobs don't reach her belly button (give her another 22 years, though!!)

4. Military poet. This was a very moving scene. Melissa, whose husband Brian is retired Marine, struck up a conversation with a retired soldier dressed in full camo . A soldier/poet who, during active duty, was one of those poor souls whose job was to tell families that their loved one had died. She drew his story out of him, and I just listened, my heart breaking. Will never forget that encounter.

5. A painter from CSUF (her name I can't remember--arrgghhh!! She deserves recognition--even on my lowly blog. If I can remember it, I'll post it) who painted children's artwork with such a deft hand that the results looked like they came straight from a child's imagination. the ability to create such amazing work truly moves my soul. I could hardly tear myself away.

The rest of it all whirls together in a pleasant, fuzzy sort of fog. I really enjoyed myself. The Art Walk in Santa Ana is now on my list of must-do-agains. There will be art you love, art that perplexes you, and art that makes you think. The important thing is, the art is here. Right here in the OC.

To TV or Not to TV...To Each Their Own

Had an interesting conversation with my 10-year-old today. It's amazing how often I come away from these brief interludes with real insight. Kids are pretty much as straight forward as they come--'till they hit 12 or so, and then they learn the much coveted-in-the-preteen-world skill of conversation avoidance--so I know I can trust what she says. I still have about 20 months before Sam hits the big 1-2, so I can pretty much rely on her to speak her mind (for the time being, anyway).

So this morning as she's shoveling down eggs while perusing the Lillian Vernon catalogue that arrived in yesterday's mail, she casually states, "My friends like you, but they think you're kind of mean."

I was astonished. Mean? Me? I thought I was the cool mom--or, if not the cool mom, at least the mom least likely to embarrass (well, not if you ask my other daughter, Nati. She says I'm mortifying--a word she learned from the "Harry Potter" books--because I always try to kiss her goodbye when I drop her off at school). Anyway, I of course had to have an explanation. I was, truth be told, a little hurt. I really like all of Sam's friends (a sweet group of girls with some of the biggest hearts around--already volunteering, raising money for charity, and generally trying to save the world at the tender ages of 10) and the idea they thought I was mean bothered me.

"Well, they think you're mean because you won't let me watch TV."

Ahhhhhh. Of course. In the world of the average 10-year-old, what happens on iCarly is at least as important as what is going on in social studies--in a way, I suppose, because Carly's adventures sort of are social studies. So when Sam's friends ask her is she's seen the latest show and she is forced to admit she hasn't, due to Mom's strict no-TV-during-the-week rule, well, I can see how that would be interpreted as "mean."

The TV-restriction isn't a punishment. It's not due to a belief that the world is going to hell-in-a-hand-basket or that shows today aren't the wholesome Brady Bunch-esque parables of my own childhood. I'm not even very religious, so it's not about shielding the girls from the "evils" of Hollywood.

The TV restriction came about this summer for one very reason: my children's reaction to television--which is to say, their non-reaction.

Unclear on what I mean? Here's a visual for you: A few months ago I walked into the family room where the girls were watching some show or the other on my husband's larger-than-ever-possibly-necessary-unless-you-run-a-sports-bar TV (65 inches--literally takes up most of the wall). I said "hello" to them pleasantly, naturally expecting a response.

Nothing.

I walked over to them. They did not turn my direction, acknowledge me in anyway--their eyes didn't even flicker in my direction. I waved my hand in front of their faces. No change of expression. Nati's mouth hung open (I swear I saw a bit of drool on her chin) and Sam sat twirling a loose strand of hair while she watched Zach and Cody enter into another ill-advised scheme.

I've seen this comatose-by-television condition before. Most strikingly several years ago when I went to visit a new friend who had two pre-teen sons. The boys were on the couch, staring blankly at the screen and eating chips. She tried in vain to get their attention so I could be introduced. The boys never even twitched. They communicated through their lack of response that not only was I not important as a guest, but that their mother was not worth the bother of answering. That still stands out in my mind--not just because of their rudeness (which not to put too fine a point on it, kids do need to respect adults--or at least pretend to) but because of the disregard with which they treated their mother. Obviously there was some other dynamic at work in that home, but still....TV played a big part in it.

So when I saw my girls unresponsive and blank-faced in front of the TV, I decided I was through with it. I let them watch 'till the end of the show (sheer dumb luck saves the day again) and then turned it off. They wailed like I'd killed the cat. I explained that they were going to play. Yes, play. With each other. Or, barring that, they were going to have friends over. For geesch's sake, we have a playroom, pool, and a huge slope in the back yard with a tree to climb on. Plus about a gazillion toys. Go play, I told them again. They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

And it wasn't like they were TV addicts--they didn't even watch that much TV in the first place. The girls were already limited to 2 hours of watching a day. The problem as I saw it was, though, that when they were bored or out of ideas, the first thing they would turn to to fill the empty time was the "boob tube" (a favorite phrase of my late dad's). I wanted more from them--and for them. They're smart, creative kids. but the TV took away their chance to be as inventive as I knew they could be.

It took about three days of grumbling, and then, suddenly, they stopped begging for TV. They found other things to do. Sam has become quite the rock collector (actually, too much of the rock collector--she has a huge tub under her bed filled with rocks of all kinds--including a few pieces of broken concrete--gleaned from the slope in our backyard). She's also discovered the joys of collecting caterpillars and keeping them in jars, where they turn into chrysalis and eventually butterflies (the last batch turned out to be fuzzy-antennaed moths). Nati loves to garden, like me. Give her a few empty pots, some potting soil, seeds or seedlings, and she's happy for hours.

Now, the girls TV watching is limited to weekends only. And a terrific thing has happened. They don't clamor for Saturday morning cartoons the moment they roll out of bed. They play Barbies or American Girl Dolls, or read books, or head outside (once as early as 6:15am; I had to drag them back in out of concern for sleeping neighbors) to run, jump and climb the tree. TV is quite literally an afterthought.

I know that my approach is not for everyone. Some moms and dads see TV as a great way for the kids to unwind. Or, they may need the TV to keep the kids occupied while they pay bills or make dinner or something equally important. And I'll be the first to admit, when my kids were younger and less able to look after themselves, Zaboomafu, Barney, and Between the Lions were my go-to babysitters when I needed a few minutes to breathe.

So am I mean? Sam and Nati don't think so...embarrassing, maybe ("Stop trying to kiss me, mom!") but ultimately they understand why the no-TV rule stands. So yeah, Sam misses the latest episode of iCarly. But in its place she gets butterflies to raise, rocks to collect, books to read...and adventures of her own.

Disney Half--Back on the Road to Runnin'

Note: This post was written immediately after the Disney Half Marathon on September 6th, but I neglected to post it in a timely manner. I thought I'd re-visit it and write it a little better, but life got in the way. So here it is, unedited and probably a little rough. xoxox

Yesterday, September 6th, was the (drumroll please!!) Disneyland 1/2 Marathon. I've been building up to it--although, interestingly, not actually training for it--for the last four months, ever since I reached deep into my wallet and pulled out my Mastercard to pay the (gasp!) $120 registration fee.

It would be my first race (loosely referred to as "race" since there is no way in God's green Earth I was even within wishing distance of placing a top spot--or even a spot in the top 100) since last September, when I ran the Disney Half Marathon. That little excursion re-injured the disks in my back that I had originally thrown out of whack in May (2008) and sent me directly into physical therapy. After a few months of exercises that looked like a piece of cake when done by my PT but were actually muscle-straining agony when performed by me, my back was as good as it was gonna be. That being said, it was still achy enough to wake me up a night once in a while and touching my toes was a thing of my past.

So naturally, I was afraid to try to run again. I'd gotten the original injury over-training for the 2008 San Diego Marathon (I just had to get under 4 hours--ha ha on me, since instead of doing it I was laying prostrate on my couch eating Vicodin by the double handfuls and calling my husband to help me to the bathroom whenever I had to pee). I was pretty sure I'd hung up my Avias for good. But after a while, whenever I'd sit at my desk, I'd look at the various race medals hung up on the wall next to me, and think, "Wow, I'd really like to do at least one more..."

So before I had time to think better of it, I signed up for the 2009 Disney Half. I'd already done it two prior years (2007 & 2008) and had tons of fun (despite the soul-searing heat of the 2007 race--90 degrees at the 6:00 am start). And once it sank in that I'd actually committed to do it, I started to worry.

Oddly, though, I didn't train much. The farthest I ran prior to the Disney Half this year was 6 miles--6 miles!! And I was planning to run 13.1?? What was I thinking??? Many of my friends hinted that I was a little crazy. My husband went so far as to call me certifiable. And to be honest, there were a couple weeks where I agreed with them. I was in no shape to run a half. I'd just eat the $120 and not do it--after all, I had the perfect excuse (my baaaaccckkkk...).

But then, my 10-year-old daughter's Girl Scout Troop Leader told me with a big, happy smile that the whole Troop had signed up to attend the Disney Half to hand out waters and cheer on the runners--all because of me! Well, obviously there was no getting out of it now. In the weeks before the event, I ran 3 - 4 days a week, 3 or 4 miles a day. Short runs, but endurance builders. Up a long hill, then a mile and a half at a slight but continual incline. My back protested, but not overly so. I'd worked so much on my core during PT that my stomach muscles were stronger than they'd been since I was in my 20s (of course, they're hidden by a layer of fat that was non-existence when I was younger, but if you push real hard, you can feel the six pack hidden under there). The core muscles support your back and take off much of the pressure. So note: if you have a back injury, strengthen your core.

But I was nervous. When my dear friend Janelle and I went to the Expo the Friday before the race to pick up our numbers, shirts and goodie bags, the chrysalis in my stomach released not one but several large-winged butterflies, and they were not happy. But that's not to say that I didn't feel the familiar pre-race rush. I love race expos--if you're a runner, and you've been, you know what I'm talking about. The charged up atmosphere of all those about to test both their physical and mental endurance...well, it's contagious. Anyway, mixed in with the adrenalin were those alarmed butterflies. I just didn't know if I would be capable...I comforted myself with the thought that there were several medic stations along the course, along with the thought that if I did collapse, somebody would stop and help me...right? Right?

The morning of the race was cloudy and cool--maybe a few degrees over what I consider ideal race temp (I like it around 58-60 degrees--the bod heats up quick). There was a cloud cover. At 6:02am, corral B got the gun, and we were off.

I'd made sure to tell everyone that my goal was just to finish, that I wasn't in it for a time, but secretly I had to finish it at 2:30 or less. I'd even picked up a timer bracelet at the Expo the day before. Not only had I picked up the 2:30 bracelet, but I also picked up a 2:15 bracelet. (A timing bracelet is a little paper bracelet that goes on your wrist. It has every mile listed and where you should be, time-wise, when you hit that mile. For example, if you are trying for a time of 2:15, you need to be at the first mile by 8:50 or something like that). Anyway, my fastest Half Marathon had been the Huntington Beach Half 2008 at 2:05:18. My "least best" was the 2:18 I'd done at the aforementioned incredibly hot 2007 Disney Half. In that race, had it not been for my BF Jackie, I would have succumbed to heat prostration and general discouragement.

So anyway, in spite of my protestations that I didn't care what time I'd get, I really, really, really wanted to get somewhere between 2:15 and 2:20. I even strategically placed myself next to the 2:15 pace group.

And guess what? Right up until mile 6 (when I got stuck in a 3-mile long line at the port-o-potty) I kept on pace with the 2:15 group. I was astonished...

And my final finishing time? According to the official race time on my chip, it was 2:19:21. I'd done it. A little part of me grumbled that if I hadn't had to pee so gosh darn bad, I would have come in 3 minutes sooner, but really, if I had skipped the potty, I would've been runnin' in wet shorts, if you get my meaning.

And I had alot of things going for me, don't forget. The weather cooperated--I didn't get sun until mile 10, and then it was on my back, rather than in my face like the poor souls who had the misfortune to be stuck in corral G (start time: 6:26 am). I had my tunes--just downloaded "Kings of Leon" and the "Best of 311" to keep my feet moving when my mind wanted to stop. Plus, most importantly, I had those girl scouts--along with their 10 x 6 banner that said "We Love You Kim!" How can you not run well when you have a huge banner dedicated just to you, accompanied by 8 smiling (if tired) faces?

So the 2009 Disney Half Marathon is now a memory that I am so, so glad I have. And now I have something else to look forward to...in the world of running, that is. I've already signed up for my next Half--the Carlsbad Half Marathon in January 2010. This time, I promise, I will train!! (maybe I can get back up in the 2:00 - 2:15 range--hey, you never know!--wink wink)

And as long as those girl scouts are there to cheer me on, I have no doubt that I will!